‘No he doesn’t,’ Cato insisted quietly. ‘Hearts and minds, remember? That’s what the procurator told us. Besides,’ Cato nodded towards the stalls, ‘your hooded friends are getting away from us.’

‘Fair enough.’ Macro quickly turned back to the young man. ‘Cross my path again, Judaean, and I’ll take your bloody head off.’

The man snorted with derision and spat on to the ground, and Cato hauled Macro after him before the latter could respond. They hurried on, quickly closing the distance between them and the small knot of men picking their way through the crowd towards the stalls. Cato, taller than Macro, was easily able to keep them in sight as the two centurions pressed on through the exotic mixture of races that filled the great courtyard. Amongst the locals were darker-featured Idumaeans and Nabataeans, many wearing turbans wound neatly round their heads. Cloth of all colours and patterns swirled amongst the crowds, and snatches of different languages filled the air.

‘Look out!’ Macro grabbed Cato’s arm and pulled him back as a heavily laden camel crossed in front of them. The beast’s wooden-framed saddle was weighed down with bales of finely woven material and it let out a deep grunt as it stepped aside to avoid the two Romans.When it had swayed past, Cato pushed on again, and suddenly paused.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Macro.

‘Shit . . . I can’t see them.’ Cato’s eyes hurriedly skimmed over the section of the crowd where he had last seen their prey. But there was no sign of the hooded men. ‘They must have lowered their hoods.’

‘Oh, great,’ Macro muttered. ‘What now?’

‘Let’s make for the tax collectors. That’s where they seemed to be heading.’